my life,
its a book.
each chapter,
with something different to read.
some read the whole book,
to find,
it wasn't what,
they expected.
it was sad.
scary.
some think the books,
to much.
not their type of read.
and they close the book.
it's so much,
to finish.
so, those never know what's exactly there.
the last few chapters,
of my book.
they are filled with dust.
it's been quite awhile,
since somebody finished my book.
so, there
its lays in the back of the bookshelf.
awaiting its next reader.

-l.j.t.

Sometimes I think of killing myself
How the end would be so nice
How the darkness would swallow me up
And how the numbness would suffice
My need

For all the voices of the feelings
That constantly keep me reeling
To softly slow to a hush
As my brain starts tur-tur-turning into mush

How wonderful it would be
To have that powerful silence
Not even grasshoppers would bother
To wake me

My cells would stop dividing
My brain would stop the lying
Myself would stop denying
What I truly want

But but but
This is just a reckless fantasy
A way to elude one’s own reality

Because as I sit here on the floor
Tears drip drip dropping
I realize there’s those who care for me more
Cherish me more
Love me more
Than I love my own self

The crickets chirp
I put the pills down

today is the day,
the day to stop pretending.
to stop telling,
yourself.
that it's okay,
not to be okay.

i believe,
that every time an artist dies,
god lets them paint the sky.
with the stars.
to say goodbye.
the forever changing sky.
full of artists.

i like noticing details that no one else sees.

-l.j.t.

is it natural
to spend all my time
making others
happy
instead of
myself?

-l.j.t.

she may not've looked nice.
but, she was still art.
and art my dear,
art is supposed to make you feel something.
art isn't supposed to be beautiful.
so, therefore she is better than nice.
she makes you feel something.

-l.j.t.